Off the Battlements
by sunsolace
Summary: Cole dredges up Blackwall's memories of his sister Liddy, and Lavellan accidentally overhears.


It was an unspoken agreement amongst the inner circle that they would pretend to ignore Cole when he dredged up something personal for someone else. After being on the receiving end at least once, none of them were quick to speak of Cole's revelations.

So when, en route to the Emerald Graves, Cole began to murmur somewhere behind her, Inquisitor Khian Lavellan all of a sudden became quite fascinated with the melting snow beneath her gelding's hooves. Rather bright melting snow, that had the discourtesy to reflect harsh sunlight into her eyes. How she missed the enthralling greens and soft browns of the forest on a clouded day—but with luck, the Emerald Graves would live up to its name. If the snow was melting, they were well out of Emprise du Lion and perhaps only a few days out from making contact with that alleged Fairbanks.

But even with all her efforts of self-distraction, it would have been impossible not to hear.

"We played by the fire so she would be warm. No, it's summer, Liddy."

Blackwall was riding close behind her, and Khian would not twist around to watch this miserable memory unfold.

"This thing you do? Maybe you should stop doing it." There was a brittle quality to Blackwall's voice, like the broken edge of a blade rasping over stone.

But Cole was relentless, having found a thread to pull and pull until the whole thing unravelled. "Got her a flower but they'd taken her. Left it on her bed. Next eight on the sill. Tourney sand. A garden seat. Five to Chantry altars. One to a child with her hair. The sea? Too many to count."

A sudden lump in her throat made it hard for Khian to swallow. Underneath her, her gelding jittered from her sudden tension and she forced her hands to slacken on the reins.

 _Well, shit._

"And thirty-six. Tossed off the battlements before we left Skyhold."

It was hardly unusual for Blackwall to scour the steep slopes framing Skyhold before visiting the battlements, though Khian had never noticed what he returned from his forays with, if anything. And there had been that one time in the Hinterlands, just after they'd met, where he'd ducked away to to Lake Calenhad and had returned wiping sap off his belt knife.

"Go bother Solas." Blackwall's voice was low, gruff. It was an old twisted grief, deep-rooted amongst those private places in his heart that she had only just begun to glimpse.

Cole could no more carve out this old pain than he could gather stars with an outstretched hand. But, Mythal bless him, that didn't stop him from trying. "You have many feelings." A pause. "I'm sorry she died."

Liddy. A sister.

"So," Khian said with forced cheer, grasping for the first topic she could find, "does anyone here wonder what the human empress wears under her gown?" Damn Sera for mentioning the empress' ass this morning.

Dorian tutted with the vigour of a scolding Chantry sister. "I'd rather wonder what our dashing commander wears under his armour."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, Varric jumped into the fray with a retort about smallclothes and Chantry boards, and one of the scout recruits sighed dreamily. Job done, Khian remained silent through the speculation and ensuing argument.

When the trail widened to allow three riders abreast, Blackwall moved into place at her right. He shot her a thankful look, not quite able to attempt a smile. Paler than the brisk morning called for. Khian nodded back, trying to ignore the rising ache behind her breastbone.

That evening, Khian found a single embrium bloom laid neatly by her tent.

Khian was no stranger to loss, nor were the Dales. The echoes of a vanquished army—a conquered people—whispered through the canopy overhead. Shadows lingered in odd places, pooling in the hollows of mossy trunks, drawn into stark relief against honeyed beams of light filtering through the leaves above. In the quietest moments, Khian could almost feel the weight of her ancestors' attention, and she prayed to the Creators again that she wouldn't trip on the edge of a cliff or something otherwise embarrassing. Solas, too, was not unaffected, but the rest of their party seemed to notice nothing. The forest itself was a grave, each tree— _vallasdahlen_ —a marker for a fallen elf.

Blackwall, too, was rather experienced with loss, and hardly needed nursing. But it still nagged her. Usually Khian preferred to focus on what she did have: aravals tucked tightly into a protective circle, soft murmurs woven through the crackle of the fire pit, halla dozing nearby. Another circle gathered around her—this one the Inquisitor's closest confidants in all their discordant glory.

Unless, of course, she was in battle, at which point it was a good idea to focus on not being run through.

And there were, as always, an alarming number of enemies ready to try. The red templars they'd expected, and Scout Harding's report of the Freemen of the Dales proved accurate. Khian could not help a grimace every time she heard 'the Dales are ours!'

Over the next several weeks they campaigned to 'spread the Inquisition's influence', which was a pretty catch-all term for killing some bandits over here, talking with some more reasonable folk over there (reasonable folk who always needed kittens fetched from trees before they'd trust the Inquisition), and camping in the woods.

Volunteering to scout the Graves gave Khian an opportunity to explore her ancestral home and unobtrusively collect what she could for her clan without fielding too many disapproving looks. Notes, sketches, rubbings—they all went into a blank journal she'd brought just for this purpose.

As Khian roamed, she wondered. This sister of Blackwall's—he wouldn't be honouring her memory after so many years if they had not been close.

When Khian stumbled upon something unexpected, she knew exactly what to do.

Blackwall looked up from his whittling at her approach, always ready with a, "My lady."

"Care to stretch your legs? We may be running dangerously low on wood scraps for you to carve. My best estimates suggest you only have a year's worth left in Skyhold."

He turned over the small block in his hands to inspect his progress. "Ah, but what good are supplies waiting in Skyhold when we're on the road? I also fear you underestimate just how much wood it takes to keep my hands busy."

"That was a 'yes, I'd be thrilled'? Excellent. Come on."

This particular encamped squatted at the top of a steep hill, offered some protection by the encircling white-stone arms of an ancient structure. Too little remained to guess what purpose it had once served.

After alerting Harding to their scouting foray, they slipped out of camp as quietly they could. Despite this, they still fielded a warning from Cassandra and a sly wink from Dorian. While Blackwall didn't squirm, Khian heard the jingle of his armour as he rolled his shoulders and the stiff pace he maintained. It was a far cry from his usual easy stride, or even his resolute march after a long day of battle.

Khian set a brisk pace down the slope. "Uncomfortable with the attention?"

Blackwall's gaze cut from their surroundings to her. "It's not the leering that bothers me, my lady, but that they might disrespect you."

"They're going to have to do better than a few sideways looks. No one's accused me of being a knife-ear to my face in months."

Her flippant remark earned a scowl. Without missing a beat, he growled, "And if anyone does, they'll get a taste of my fist." Before she had a chance to respond, he asked, "What was it you wished my presence for, my lady?"

Khian's mouth curled into the mischievous smile he had since learned to be wary of. "You'll see."

She cut across the narrow gravel path with sure feet while Blackwall trusted her sense of direction. A gentle breeze stirred branches high above them, drawing reedy whispers as if the trees themselves were talking. Or gossiping. Khian supposed it wasn't like they had anything better to do. Looking majestic and proud and gloomy had to get old after a century or two.

Creators be praised, there were no giants about. Or red templars. Or red lyrium smugglers. Or Freemen. Or bears.

"This isn't a scouting trip," Blackwall observed. "You have a destination in mind."

"I don't deny it." Her innocent smile dissuaded any further questions, though Blackwall groused good-naturedly under his breath.

He wasn't held in suspense for long.

The land slanted downwards, then dropped away with little warning. Here the trees were moulded by lashing winds, curving against what solid land remained until it dropped away entirely. Khian found a ledge that jutted past the treeline and they stepped up to the cliff with care.

For one dizzying moment Khian was beggared by the scale of the mountains. Trees dotted their slopes, no larger than her thumbnail. So wide was the valley that the mountains on the other side faded to a distant grey, their edges blurring with the clouds rolling northward. A river slithered over the valley floor, no more than a smooth silver ribbon. Gales battled in the open air, roaring to another in challenge and whipping at Khian's clothes.

"Stay here. If you see a dragon, scream," Khian advised. "Or hide. That works well, too."

"Aye, until it sets the tree I'm standing behind on fire."

Khian waved a dismissive hand. "Details."

His chuckle followed her into the underbrush. Not far away was a ruined wall of arches made from the same pale stone as most elven constructs. The afternoon breeze carried a gentle chiming that Khian followed. And there was her goal: crystal grace twined along the top of the walls. The subtle sweetness of their fragrance bathed the air around her, mixing with the woodsy moss-and-rain smell of the forest. She approached the lowest segment of the wall and climbed up, the broken stone edges giving her a decent grip. When Khian reached the flowering stems, she braced herself with her legs and drew her belt knife.

Three blooms: one for Liddy's life, another for her death, and a third for her memory.

Getting down without crushing the flowers was more fun than it should have been. Khian half-clambered, half-ran, building momentum until she could jump off the edge. She landed in a half-crouch, arms spread and flowers intact, if a little windswept.

Blackwall hadn't been eaten by a dragon during her absence, which was good. Khian presented him with the three blooms. "For your sister."

His face slackened in surprise. "I— thank you, my lady." Blackwall took them from her, gently, and approached the edge. Examining the drop, he said, "I wish you'd had a chance to meet her."

"If she was anything like her bother, then she lives on in you."

Blackwall's mouth broke into a rueful smile, but he remained silent. He ran a gloved finger over the velvety blue petals, then cast the flowers over the cliff. His arm was sure, and the flowers gained some distance before being swept away by the gales.

Khian leaned into Blackwall's side, her temple resting against his bicep. Blackwall welcomed her closeness, draping his arm across her back. They watched the flowers fall.

Her thoughts turned to the eulogy of her people, _In Uthenara_. Perhaps there had been many such songs once, but this was the only survivor of two stolen homelands. The lyrics had been carved into her memory after hearing them all too often over the years. The final lines fluttered over her heart.

 _Vir lath sa'vunin._

 _We love one more day._

When Khian squeezed Blackwall's hand, he squeezed back.


End file.
